


The Gentle Fall

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Hand Job, Hurt/Comfort, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oy!  I'll have you know I'm the perfect gentleman."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gentle Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Title and quote from "Gravity" by Vienna Teng. Set sometime between "Blinded" and "Sacrifice"; general spoilers for first season.

_that's the name we've long held back   
from the core of truth_

Cal pushed his glasses up to scrub his face, suppressing a bored yawn as he looked down at the stack of scribbled notes in front of him. Final corrections for his new book to be published in the fall: twenty pages into the book, a good two hundred more to go, and he was already contemplating a bonfire in his wastebasket. Perfect scut work for unpaid interns, he thought sourly as he red-lined yet another misspelling of _corrugator supercilii_; he really should have foisted this on Loker.

He clamped the pen between his teeth and forced his concentration back onto the printed words. Soon he was so engrossed that he didn't notice Gillian enter his office about half an hour later, until she stood right in front of him, her coat draped over her arm.

"Hey."

He looked up at the familiar, soft voice and removed the pen from his mouth. "Hey yourself," he said, glad of the distraction. "Nice to see a friendly face around here." He glanced out the bank of windows behind him. "Late as it is. What time is it, anyway?"

"Eleven-thirty."

"Makes sense then." He peered at her over the rims of his glasses. "Not used to seeing you here at this hour, Foster."

She tossed her coat onto the armchair. "Couldn't sleep. I thought I'd take the opportunity to catch up on the never-ending paperwork." She shrugged and gave a slight smile. "Why are you here working this late?"

He tossed his pen down onto the stack of paper in front of him. "Galley proofs for the book. They're due tomorrow. This is the first chance I've had to even think about it."

She stared at him, then tilted her head, mildly chastising. "You've had them for two weeks, Cal! Aren't you cutting it close?"

"Let's just say it hasn't been high up on my list of priorities 'til now."

Gillian rolled her eyes in her familiar look of fond exasperation. "I could help you with the proofreading--"

"Nah, I wouldn't want to inflict it on you. Trust me, it's pure torture."

He removed his glasses and set them down on top of the proofs, leaned back in his chair and grinned at her, surreptitiously surveying her face. He noted her black slacks, white frilled blouse, the freckles scattered on her too-pale skin. She was valiantly feigning cheerfulness but her smile didn't touch her eyes, and her arms crossed tightly across her middle screamed self-comfort. He cocked his head, affecting light indifference to suppress his own worry at her obvious distress.

"Alec working late again tonight, love?"

A brief frown, almost imperceptible, crossed her face before the smile returned. "No, actually. Alec is at home." She began to wander about the office aimlessly, still holding herself.

Lack of contractions, tight voice and stilted words. Distancing language, Cal thought; they must've had a quarrel, then, and it had to have been a big one for Gillian to want to come into the office this late. Wants to work as a distraction, and she probably intends to spend the night here too. He well knew that feeling.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

He could hear the effort to suppress her emotion in that clipped tone. Regret, frustration--something more desperate too. Time to bring it out. "You're lying," Cal replied lightly.

"Stop reading me, Cal."

An old rejoinder, more reflex than anything by now, but the new edge in her voice set off warning bells. He leaned forward. "It must have been one hell of a row," he said gently.

She stopped pacing and turned to glare at him. "Don't go there. You have no right."

"Maybe not," he agreed, "but I can still show concern for you, can't I?"

"Yes. And you can show your concern by not prying." She sounded firm enough, but when she turned away from him, her shoulders hunched.

He rose from his chair. "It's not that easy for me, love," he said, still keeping it light. He walked around the desk to stand behind her.

"No, of course not." She laughed bitterly, and Cal winced at the resentment bubbling beneath. "Do you really want to know why I'm here?"

"As much as you want to tell me."

"Fine. All right." Gillian rounded on him, her face brittle. "Alec and I had a fight. And Alec told me--he told me that it's all my fault. Are you happy now?"

Cal's heart broke at her expression, but he kept impassive, holding her gaze. "What's all your fault?"

Gillian obliged him; she tilted her head towards the ceiling, blinking and fighting to control her voice. "Apparently, everything that's happened to us--our infertility, our losing Sophie, his going back on drugs. That if I had simply spent more time focusing on--on anything--other than--"

Her hand flew to her mouth and she turned away again. Cal reached out to touch her arm, but she flinched, and he cursed silently. He'd hunt down Alec and beat him to a bloody pulp for hurting her like this, if Gillian didn't need him so badly right now. Maybe he still would after Gillian calmed down, just on principle.

Meanwhile, he needed to stay calm for her. "I'd say he's just projecting his own failures onto you," he said instead.

"And he told me he's sleeping with his drug sponsor."

Soft words, and yet they exploded loud in his ears. "I'm sorry," Cal muttered, looking away. He'd guessed Alec had betrayed her when he purposely ran into him and his sponsor that one night, but he'd accepted Gillian's subsequent explanation. Now for her sake he desperately wished he hadn't been right.

Gillian curled in on herself again and started to sway slightly. She's trying to bottle it in when she needs to be angry about this, Cal thought. He wanted her good and angry, let it out and clear her head.

There was one sure way to provoke her. So what if it were offensive--that had never stopped him before. It damn well wasn't going to stop him with Gillian, not when she needed it.

He stepped up close to whisper in her ear. "You know what I think you need, Foster? He's sniffing elsewhere. You need to have it off too."

She whirled to face him. "What--?"

Cal might have laughed at the bug-eyed look on her face if he didn't know how miserable she already was. "I'm serious," he said, and nodded at her. "Have a shag. Release some of that tension you're feeling." He affected a wolfish grin.

Gillian's face grew pale as realization dawned. "And what? You're the one to release it with?"

"Why not?" He leered again, spread his hands, hoped she'd take the bait. "A long, hard shag. Very hard." He waggled his eyebrows. "I hear it does wonders."

Her face twisted with fury. "I--I--You're--you're a god-damned _pig_, Lightman!" she spluttered, pointing an accusing finger at him. "How--how _dare_ you even think to suggest that? I thought you were--You are _so_ far over the line right now--"

She glared at him, her lips pursed in a thin line; in her heels they were the same height. He could see her pulse racing in her neck, her muscles tensed, ready to fight or flee. _Atta girl. Get that adrenaline pumping._

Now that she was pissed off, it was time to switch tactics. He adopted a loose and cocky pose, rocked on his heels. "Good and angry now are you, Foster? Do you want to hit me, then? Go on, I deserve it, you said so yourself I'm a pig."

Gillian scowled, trembling violently all over, her fists clenched at her side. Almost there, he thought. He stepped up to her, pasted a leery grin on his face and tapped his jaw. "I dare you. C'mon, right here--"

Duly she slapped him across the cheek.

Cal staggered with the force behind the slap. That's it, he thought admiringly, let it out. He straightened a second later, ready for the next blow, but she was already looking away, her shoulders slumping as the fight suddenly drained out of her.

"I can't," she said to the floor, so softly Cal had to strain to hear it. "I can't." Her face crumpled and she sank down onto the couch, bowing her head.

His cheek stung like a right bitch, but that didn't matter. Cal stared down at her, his heart aching for a moment, then he went to lock the office door for privacy. When he returned to the couch, Gillian hadn't budged; in fact she had folded in on herself, wringing her hands in her lap.

She looked so lost, so defeated--he knelt in front of her and laid a hand on her knee. "Tell me what you're thinking, love."

She went completely still for a minute, then heard her exhale. "I want it." She looked up at him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, and nodded firmly. "I want it."

Cal drew back and blinked with surprise. "Want what?"

She gazed at him, her wan face a study in yearning. "A shag."

He couldn't keep his jaw from metaphorically dropping to the floor. "You didn't actually think I was _serious_\--?"

"No, of course not." She looked up at him, a small smile tugging on her face. "I know it was just your way of goading me." She nodded at the redness on his cheek. "It worked, too. Sorry about that."

They shared a brief chuckle, then she added, "You're right, Cal. I haven't felt good in a very long time. And I'm tired of fighting, of putting on a show." She sighed, closed her eyes briefly. "All right, so I don't want a shag. But--I want to feel good. And--" She glanced down and away, then back up again, and she shrugged. "An orgasm is as good a plan as any."

He stared up at her, searched her pale face. She stared back, her eyes wide and steady. _She is bloody serious about this_, he thought, stunned. His mouth twitched and he squeezed her knee gently.

"Are you sure about this, Foster? The line--"

"It's not over the line if it's not about sex."

There was a beat while Cal tried to process, then he flashed a cocky grin. "As in, 'I did not have sex with that woman'?" Anything to hide the sudden terror that struck him deep in his gut.

"Something like that."

He blinked hard and shook his head. "I don't want to end up hurting you." Or _ruin our friendship_, he added to himself--the one thing he desperately could _not_ afford to lose. "And what about your marriage--?"

"My marriage is over in everything but name." She shook her head ruefully and covered his hand with hers. "And I trust you. You could never hurt me, Cal. I want this. I _need_ this."

He swallowed. He'd do anything for her, but what she was asking... "I don't know if I should, love."

"Think of it as--as comfort," she said. "No kissing, no getting undressed. No sex. Just you touching me, okay? Through my clothes. No strings, no recriminations in the morning, the line stays intact." She nodded, reassuring.

She looked so miserable, yet so hopeful, he couldn't find it in himself to deny her, as dangerous as it was. "If it's what you want," he said, impressed that he was able to keep his voice steady despite the trepidation gripping his heart. "All right then."

"Thank you." She patted his hand, looked away and let go.

He rose, then sat on the cushion beside her and drew her close. He pressed his nose into her hair; smelled citrus shampoo, vanilla and jasmine, a hint of tangy salt, the warm and comforting scents he'd always associated with her. She sighed and nestled into the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

Only the cone of light from Cal's desk lamp and the lights of D.C. illuminated the room. Electronic equipment hummed in the background but otherwise it was quiet. Shadow and silence, a private, twilight world, familiar and unsettling at once. He'd be lying to say he hadn't entertained daydreams of sitting with Gillian like this, but that's all they'd been. So he'd told himself, anyway; Cal hid from his own vulnerability at the best of times. Here there was nothing but, and it rattled him more than he ever wanted to admit.

"This is quite an excuse to get in your knickers, love," Cal said to break the odd spell, aiming for light-hearted. "Not something I'd have thought of."

"Oh really?"

"Oy! I'll have you know I'm the perfect gentleman."

He felt the quirk of her cheek against his collarbone. "There are many words I associate with you, Cal, but 'gentleman' is not one of them," Gillian replied.

"Oh, now that hurt."

She pulled out of his embrace and flashed him a wry grin. "Sorry."

"Yeah? Now try saying it like you mean it."

She laughed outright then, and that seemed to break the ice for both of them. He watched as she toed her pumps off her feet and swung her legs up onto the cushions. He eased back, drawing her with him, until they both lay stretched out on the couch, he half-turned on his side with one arm around her, Gillian against the cushions facing him. She lay her head in the crook of his neck and clutched the fabric of his shirt in her fist.

He felt a faint tremor course through her (or maybe it was him; hard to tell, this close); he planted a soft kiss on the top of her head, smoothed back her hair; caressed her cheeks, chin, ears. Her skin was warm, damp under her eyes where a few tears had escaped. He felt her exhale, nod slightly against his shoulder, settle further into him as if she'd always been there.

Cal brushed over the bump of her nose and curve of her upper lip, and her lips quirked. He was sure it was only reflex, that it didn't mean anything beyond acknowledgment--but a wave of heat surged through him all the same. At that moment it was all he could do not to tip her chin up to kiss her mouth.

He slid his fingers away quickly, resting them on her hair again, and blinked at the ceiling. _Bloody hell_, he thought, stricken. The very thing he'd promised he wouldn't do, here he was thinking it--this was more than skirting the line, it was dangerous, a stupid, stupid idea. She should have broken his jaw instead of just slapping him--it would have been easier.

She was so vulnerable right now, but so warm, willing to go this far--he checked himself short. This was not about pleasure. It was about helping her pain, and he was not going to take advantage of that. Nothing beyond what they'd agreed to, he admonished himself. No matter how tempting.

He took a minute to collect himself again, then pressed his hand over the exposed skin at the neck of her blouse. He felt her pulse flutter under his fingers, and she nestled in closer. He began to stroke her hair, smoothing down her collarbone, her arm to her hand and then back, careful to stay above the waist and avoid the softness of molded curves under her blouse. It was simple touch, more soothing than sensual; he felt her tension bleed away, her body melt into his. And as calming as it was for her, it was for him, too. He could stay here on the couch all night, just holding and caressing her like this, and the manuscript on his desk could bloody well go correct itself.

"Mmmm, feels nice," Gillian purred, breaking the silence.

Cal grunted, amused. "Like being petted?" He rolled his eyes at his own double entendre.

Clearly she thought the same thing, because she rewarded him with a not-so-playful slap on his chest. "Shut up, Cal."

"Sorry, love."

Even so, Gillian lifted his hand and laid it on the rise of her hip, a subtle, but clear request to continue. He took the hint: let his hand drift lower, smoothing over her slacks, stroking up and down her thighs as far as he could reach. He felt her legs quake when he trailed towards her inner thighs, heard the faintest catch of breath; he could feel the heated flush of her cheek against the side of his neck. She was clearly aroused; his own heart sped up in both thrill and fresh terror.

His hand slowly ranged to the front, dipped just under the waistband of her slacks to caress the downy smoothness of her skin. Another wave of arousal washed through him, reminding him of how close to the line this really was. He pushed his physical desire away through sheer strength of will.

He pulled his hand back, and this time he did tilt her chin up to look at her, his best friend and right now the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, with her face flushed, lips swollen and eyes smoky, dilated and glassy with need. He pressed a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice suddenly husky with effort to suppress an undefined emotion. "We can stop right here, just cuddle, I'm good with that--"

"I'm sure."

"Okay." He nodded towards her waist. "But how do you want me to--?"

Gillian placed his hand over the fly of her slacks. "Like this, Cal." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she molded his fingers on the hook and eye. "Please. I just want to feel good right now."

He unfastened the clasp and pulled down the zip of her pants, just managing not to fumble. He rested a minute, letting them both become accustomed to it; then he dipped lower, lower. He took his sweet time to let her enjoy the sheer sensation of touch; fine flutters of her stomach, his thumb tickling her navel, until he reached the lace band of her knickers. Her breathing sped up a notch, and she shifted one leg up a bit, opening for access.

He hesitated, expecting another urge of lust he'd have to suppress, but oddly enough, her movement drove home their original intention of comfort, not sex. Framed in those terms, he could do this. He slid his fingers over the silky fabric, massaged tiny circles on her mound; he heard a small catch of breath, felt Gillian fist his shirt tighter.

Gently Cal moved down from her mound, taking great care to keep the silk between his fingers and her bare skin. His eyes widened with brief surprise when he felt her panties already damp. _Been a long time for you, love, hasn't it_, he thought a little wistfully. He probed through the silk until he found her clit, already engorged; swiping at it, he elicited a small cry from Gillian, half-muffled in his shirt.

Like the true scientist he was, he repeated the motion, and he felt her press forward into the touch, wanting more. She exhaled shakily; through his chest he felt her heart begin to race. His own thudded in his ears.

Cal buried his nose in her hair, inhaled deeply. He did not look at her, did not look at what he was doing to her, did not speak aloud. It'd be different if this were about sex, making love; but this was about comfort, too big and too raw to acknowledge anywhere but in the dark, with silence. Her need was almost too much for him to process as it was, what with Gillian beginning to rock against his hand when he cupped her, and subtly--then not-so-subtly--nudging him to go further, faster.

He complied, letting her guide his touch. He began an internal monologue, silently encouraging her on. Wetness slid against his fingers; she trembled violently against his hand. Gillian clung tight, tighter, panting into his shoulder, tiny whimpers with each breath through gritted teeth. Cal felt his arm around her going numb, crushed as it was between her and the cushions; the air around them was humid with her exertion. But it was bloody brilliant, it was, to feel her come undone like this in his arms, even despite the reason.

Soon enough she was almost there: hips grinding, breath panting, her whole slender body wound and tense against him. "Cal--" she breathed against his neck, "I can't--"

Something in him shattered at her tone. "It's all right, love," he whispered, and he twisted his fingers just _so_. "Just let go now."

And there it was, the first explosive shudder, the surprised gasp of release. It shouldn't have caught him off-guard but it did, and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to hold back a sudden flood of emotion. "I've got you," he murmured thickly, over and over as she bucked and moaned with each spasm. "I've got you."

Gillian's tremors slowly died away, and after a minute or so she collapsed, boneless, against him. He bussed her hair, held her close as he withdrew, dragging on her panties to wipe his fingers; closed the zip, refastened the hook clasp on her slacks one-handed and rested his hand on his chest. His other arm around her had now lost all feeling. It was going to hurt when the blood returned.

After Gillian's breathing slowed to normal, she nodded against his neck with a drawn-out sigh.

"How are you feeling now?"

Gillian's lips quirked. "Better," she said thoughtfully, "I'm--better." She covered his hand with hers and pressed gently. "Thank you."

Another ache rose unbidden from his heart, swelling towards his throat, and he swallowed hard against it. "Glad to hear it, love," he said, his voice gruff, and he kissed her forehead.

Cal stayed, still and silent for a few minutes, not wanting to move, but then the unfinished manuscript proofs popped into his head. Yeah, he should really get back to those, tempting as it was to fall asleep with Gillian right now, he thought more than reluctantly.

He tried to tug his numb arm free, but she didn't budge. "Uh, Foster? I think my arm's dead. Can you move up a bit, please?"

"Not moving." She was already drifting.

"Oy, I'm not kidding." He shook her gently. "Get up, love. I promise you can lie back down in a minute."

She raised her head and peered at him blearily, then shifted enough for him to pull his arm out. He shook it and winced--oh, it was not going to be pleasant, that--then sat up. He pulled her up best as he could manage with his good arm, and shifted her until she was lying the opposite way on the couch. He then lay back down beside her, just until she was out, he told himself. She curled against his side and nestled into his shoulder as if she'd always belonged there.

"So tired," Gillian said.

"Then go to sleep."

"Stay until I do?"

"Absolutely."

She dropped off not two minutes later, just in time for the blood to return to his formerly trapped arm. He flinched and gritted his teeth until the pins and needles stopped poking, then he extricated himself and got up. With a sigh she immediately pillowed her head on one hand; he grabbed her coat and draped it over her.

Cal crossed over to his desk, picked up his abandoned manuscript and glasses. He sat in the armchair opposite the couch, items in his lap; he propped his elbow on the armrest, to regard her sleeping form.

"Good night, love," he said softly.

Gillian had been wrong, he thought; he had indeed fallen across a line. Not *the* line, the one they'd drawn between them--he was sure of that--rather, the similar one within himself; which had always been there since they first met, but which he'd never dared acknowledge until tonight.

There was no going back over it now, and he knew it. I should be bloody terrified, he thought, gazing on Gillian's finally-peaceful features; yet oddly enough, he felt anything but.

So Cal donned his glasses, picked up his pen, and resumed red-lining the book proofs. No matter how long it would take--he was willing to wait until she fell too.


End file.
